


Second Visitor

by chiaroscure



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:41:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23619172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiaroscure/pseuds/chiaroscure
Summary: After the Thirsk fair debacle, Daisy fabricates an excuse to visit Thomas during his recovery, and they spend a moment chatting. They used to get on well, after all.
Relationships: Thomas Barrow & Daisy Mason
Comments: 15
Kudos: 117





	Second Visitor

Daisy is half way up the stairs to the men’s sleeping quarters when it dawns on her that she is  _ half way up the stairs to the men’s sleeping quarters _ and the teacup on the tray she is carrying starts to rattle in its saucer. She continues on up the stairs despite the grin she will have to get in check before reaching her destination. It is  _ warm _ up here; she would fan herself if only she had a hand free with which to do it. Or maybe it's just her. That is likely.

This is, of course, an overreaction. She got done not five minutes ago telling Mrs Patmore that it’s no big thing for her to take Thomas a lunch tray; everybody is downstairs working but him anyhow, and he’s only in bed because he’s too injured to get up to anything, so what is Mrs Patmore worried about? 

Just the same, now that she finds herself nearing the landing, Daisy feels girlishly giddy at the idea of entering forbidden territory.

The look of the hallway is predictable. Not at all different from the women’s quarters, just flipped around, and with different name cards outside the doors. The disappointment of not finding anything more salacious than this alleviates some of her flightiness, though of course she knew there would be nothing exciting going on when she set out. 

Thomas’s door, which is near the midpoint of the hall, is ajar when she finds it, with mixed artificial and natural light glowing out from inside. That’s good; she considered that he might be asleep: she only got a glimpse of him after the fair, but from what she could glean from what she did see, and how everyone else is being about it, she gets the impression that he is bad enough off to need extra sleep. She was not keen to wake him, but leaving the lunch tray on the floor outside didn’t seem quite right either when she thought about it, so she is pleased not to have to decide. She balances the tray against her ribs so she can knock. 

“Come in,” says his voice through the door. She hears his bedsprings squeak as she pushes it all the way open to enter.

“Daisy?” he notes upon seeing her, setting the paper he is holding aside. She stands frozen in the doorway for a split second, startled more at seeing her long-time coworker in only his undershirt in bed than at the unpleasantness of his injuries, before shaking herself out of the shock to take the tray over to him, smiling. He smiles back through split lips, hands out to take the tray from her. “Thanks. Thought they’d be sending one of the hallboys.”

Daisy looks down at her feet, now she's free of the tray. “They’re all off busy somewhere; I told Mrs Patmore it’d be quicker if she’d just send me, and less bother. I don’t mind.”

“Mm. Just as well. Between you and me none of them’s any good at serving.”

Daisy lets out a little laugh at that, and then another when Thomas starts his lunch with one of the biscuits she’d put with his tea. He savours it, letting out a contented little breath.

“I like these,” he says off-handedly. Daisy knows that; that’s why she made this kind this morning. Thomas has always had sticky fingers when it comes to sweets, and she, intimately familiar with everything in the kitchen as she is, has not failed to notice which confections he favours. Being as he is bed-bound, she thought he might be able to use a bit of a pick-me-up treat.

“I know,” she replies, and gestures at the two he hasn’t yet touched. “I put an extra one on the plate for you.”

He glances up at her with an appreciative shine about his features. He looks younger like this, she thinks, with his hair loose, none of his clothes starched, and a biscuit in his mouth. She’s sorry for his cuts and bruises, but she’d almost say it suits him; he’s got quite a pleasant air about him at the moment.

She should probably get a move on; Mrs Patmore will be wondering where she went, and no doubt will tell her she shouldn’t have been bothering Thomas. Thomas doesn’t seem eager for her to leave, though, and she’s rather curious about what’s going on, so she opts to linger another moment.

“You’re in a good mood,” she observes. Thomas’s brow furrows slightly, more in surprise than anything else, like he hadn’t given much thought to what his mood might be one way or another. 

“I am, well enough. S’pose that means I should come back downstairs soon, if you don’t think I’m still too horrifying. Wouldn’t want to put everyone off their suppers.”

He sneers, but there’s no malice in it. She almost gives an honest answer, that he probably ought to wait another day or two as he has certainly looked better, but opts not to do that. He has looked better, objectively; his face is a wreck and he winces every time he moves such that she doubts he’ll be _able_ to come down for another few days at least, but there is an easiness to how he’s been smiling since she got here that is rather lovely and makes up for most of the injury damage to his appearance. It reminds her of how he was when he was in a light mood during their first couple of years working here together, before the war. It’s nice.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” she responds instead. “You’ve got an excuse to have a lie-in for a few days; we none of us get to have those too often. No use wasting it.”

“You’re right about that!” Thomas laughs, and that’s nice too. He takes a bite out of a second biscuit to emphasize his agreement.

Daisy grins down at the rest of the food on his tray. “What have you been doing up here?”

Thomas swallows, shrugs, and flinches at the movement of his shoulders. “Not a lot so far, really. Couldn’t do much but sleep yesterday, read the paper this morning. Jimmy visited. That about sums it up.”

He seems pleased as punch about this sequence of events. It doesn’t sound so marvelous to Daisy; sleeping off hurt or sickness isn’t usually very luxurious, and Jimmy Kent is hardly who she would choose for a comfort caller, but to each their own. She glances around his bedroom (with a little shiver going up her spine when she remembers how unusual it is to see inside  _ anyone’s _ bedroom, much less one of the male staff’s, much less Thomas’s), noting the little personal touches in addition to any hints at what he might get up to this afternoon other than, likely, more napping. There’s not much to it, just as there’s not much to anyone’s space—a blanket-covered armchair, a desk with a few nick-knacks that look more practical than personal, a framed photograph she can’t quite make out on the dresser across the room, a little bookshelf—but it feels neither disappointing nor exciting relative to whatever subconscious expectations she might have had. She might have been able to pick it out as his, if she, for whatever reason, had been asked to look at everyone’s rooms and decide which belonged to whom. The thought of familiarity pleases her.

“Do you want one of those?” she gestures at the books. “For when you’re finished eating? You’ll not be wanting to get up and walk around too much yet, I wouldn’t think.”

He makes a face like he hasn’t considered what he might do in the afternoon, but nods. “Alright, yeah.”

She walks the few steps around his bed to get a better look at what is on the shelves. “Which one?”

“Doesn’t matter. Whatever looks most interesting to you.”

It’s reminiscent of when she used to point out headlines or pictures in the newspapers he’s always flipping through downstairs, and he would scan the article and tell her anything entertaining he found in it. When had they stopped doing that? 

She plucks a book from the shelf, inspects it for a few seconds, and hands it to him. She expects him to put it on the bedside table for the moment, but he holds onto it.

“Do you know it?” he asks. Daisy shakes her head. “It’s funny; it’ll be a good—”

“Do you remember when we used to read the paper?” she blurts out, cutting him off. “I’d be tidying up and point at pictures, and you’d tell me what the story was about?”

He looks stricken before he gives a tight nod, the smile frozen on his face. 

“I do.”

“I used to like that.”

He stares at her for several seconds like he’s not sure if he’s being reprimanded or if she’s just reminiscing. He must decide on the latter because his shoulders loosen again. 

“I could read you this?” he offers tentatively. 

“I should get back to the kitchen.”

Thomas arches a scabbed-over eyebrow. “There's no one to cook for; they’re all in Scotland.”

“They’re coming back today; Lady Mary’s in hospital because the baby’s coming.”

“But they’re not here now, are they? Come on; it’s quiet up here in the middle of the day.”

“Mrs Patmore’ll be wanting to get things ready…”

“She’s got Ivy, hasn’t she?”

Daisy beams (somewhat vindictively) at that, which Thomas seems to find amusing. 

“She’ll not be pleased, you know, Thomas.”

“When's she ever pleased? Tell her it’s my fault; she’s hardly going to come up and tell me off while I’m laid up in bed.”

“Right, but you’re resting, and you’ve got to eat; you shouldn’t be reading to me.”

“Then pay me back for reading all those stories to you before and _you_ read it to _me_.”

Still grinning, she half-heartedly digs for more excuses, but finds herself at a loss. Thomas’s challenging expression is blunted somewhat by the bruising, but it works a charm anyway, and he nods at the wooden chair already pulled out from the wall. She titters but takes the chair. 

“You’ve got to eat, though, or I'll not read,” she demands, leaning forward so he won’t have to move too much to hand her the book. He rolls his eyes but tucks in, so, her conditions satisfied, she flips carefully through the pages to find the beginning.

It’s a funny story, written for children, but a bit different from the children’s stories Daisy has heard before. She can’t read aloud as smoothly as Thomas can, but she ploughs forward anyhow, finding herself intrigued by the unusual attitude carried through the words that, oddly, feels almost as familiar to her despite its newness as Thomas’s bedroom does. He says nothing and she all but forgets that he’s there until she reaches a clear turning point in the narrative, and looks up to find that he has finished the food on his tray. She closes the book sharply, eyes snapping to a pretty little clock next to his bed to make sure that not  _ too _ much time has passed. She’s not sure what ‘too much time’ would be exactly, but she knows she’s toeing the line of it, if she's not well over already.

“I should get back downstairs,” she announces, standing hurriedly and shoving the book back into his hands. “I’ll take the dishes back, if you’re finished.”

He nods agreeably and lets her lift the tray away. He looks tired, she thinks, though she’s mostly trying to keep her eyes off of him and on the floor as she hovers momentarily over him to reach the far handle of the tray. Tired, but happy. 

“Thanks for that, Daisy,” he says once she’s straightened up. “Nice to have the company. And the extra biscuit.”

She bites back her smile, hesitating to take the first step toward the door.

“Does it have a happy ending? The story.”

“Not really,” he shrugs. “But I like it anyway.”

She nods again without responding as she goes, but flashes him a last grin before pulling the door behind her. He gives a tiny wave as he settles himself back against the pillows. 

It’s a different sort of giddiness bubbling in Daisy’s chest as she goes down the stairs than the one she felt coming up them: this time, she’s thinking that this is the most she’s spoken to Thomas for quite a while, and it’s certainly the friendliest he’s been in years. He’s rather good company when he isn't determined not to be. It’s not that she  _ forgot  _ that about him , exactly—more that there hasn’t been much occasion to be reminded of it. She has no idea why being beaten black and blue has got him in such high spirits, but whatever the reason, she hopes he keeps his good mood up. It suits him.


End file.
